Your body, my choice

Content warning: This triptych contains content that may be distressing for some individuals.

They were out in force one day after the election with their chants of intimidation, but they have always been here.

PAVILLION
He was the kind man who offered to look after me. My father abandoned us years ago and Mom was our only provider. He took me to the park, for ice cream, to do things that were supposed to be fun. I remember sitting on the red merry-go-round not wanting to be there. Like him, it wasn’t shiny and new. It was old, beaten up, rusting and the paint was peeling off in the places children held onto the most. Holding onto the silver handles always resulted in a familiar metal stench on your hands which was difficult to wash away. Your hands reeked of it the rest of the day.

He was a giant. My seven year old hands disappeared in his. I didn’t want to respond when he stretched out his cigarette-stained fingers, but there was no other choice. We walked toward the pavilion. With each step, my heart raced faster. A lump formed in my throat. There was a momentary step to the left to try and release myself from his grip, but his hand tightened, crushing my spirit.

The darkness comes and goes. My face is held in place against the weathered, wooden and wobbly table, one of many that line the pavilion. I can see the trees in the distance. It’s a cool Autumn day. The leaves are brightly colored shades of yellow and red. There is still a mix of green on branches that slowly sway with the cool breeze of October. My fingers claw at the fractured wood in a futile effort to be free. I remain on my stomach, screaming from time to time. The screaming in my head has never stopped. It was the last time I screamed aloud for help that was never going to come.

CELLAR
The bicycle shed wasn’t a shed at all, but everyone called it that. It was a cellar, only accessible from the outside of the house. We stored our bicycles, garden tools, black walnuts, and miscellaneous things we stripped for aluminum or copper to sell when we needed money. It was lit by a small, rectangular window split into two panes. If the wind was strong enough, you could hear the panes rattle in its frame.

The wooden cellar door was old and worn and fit into the frame loosely, as if the entire idea of attaching a door were an afterthought. Its blue-gray paint was always chipping off. The rusty latch was used as a handle. The top and bottom of the door was jagged and each of its three pieces was broken or splintered in their own way. A slant at the top was visible where someone must have trimmed it to fit, but eyeballed the cut instead of measuring.

Two steps through the doorway and your foot would land in the cellar a few inches below. Dirt pillowed around your shoes, rising up in a fine, brown mist before settling back to the ground. If you bounded into the cellar, the dust particles would fly up and dance with the rays of light beaming through the dirty glass window panes. Light sprinkled around every edge and through every crack of the door. Handfuls of soft, fine dirt could be gathered in the palm of your hand and let fall gently back to the ground. When the ground was stirred with constant commotion, the dust particles would choke out the light and gather in your hair, your eyes, up your nose, in your ears, and in your mouth.

I didn’t like the cellar even if I was alone. It was dark. It made me panic. The sound of the rickety door made me tighten with fear. Going there with my cousin always ratcheted up my anxiety to an exhausting level. My heart raced as it tried to exit my body and be anywhere but here.

I grabbed the rusty latch and took the single step down into the dark and damp cellar. My 16-year-old cousin shoved me from behind. I closed my eyes and tried not to cry. We weren’t going to get my bicycle, but 13 year old me so desperately wanted to still believe this lie. I told him no as firmly as I could. I tried to push past him to get out of the cellar, but he blocked the door.

“Please don’t make me do this.” Words I had said dozens of times in dozens of places before. I begged him to let me leave. He wasn’t budging. I tried to push past him, but he was much bigger than me. He put his hand around my neck and shoved my head against the cement wall. I couldn’t fight back.

I looked down at the floor and watched the familiar dirt pillow around my foot before rising up in a fine, brown mist and then falling back to the floor. The sun shone in through the small cellar window illuminating the dark and dirty room. I could see his face and I didn’t want to.

The brief commotion of struggle had kicked enough dust into the air that I could taste it. Dust particles gently trickled in and out of sight in front of the window panes. They moved through the beam of light above my head. I would follow one speck until it faded back into the darkness before another caught my eye. I watched it move, linger ever so slightly, before it, too, moved into the black.

I turned my head to the left and stared at the blinding light coming through the bottom of the cellar door. Tears flowed down my face and onto the floor, wetting the dirt so no more particles could dance in the air for me. Then, everything went black.

TRAIN
The train pulled into the station in Utrecht. I watched as it slowed down and several rail cars passed me before it came to a complete stop. It was a cold and chilly January afternoon. We had been out since before the sun came up and now I’d have a chance to see the sun set, too. I had met with an Anthropology advisor and gathered information about the possibility of attending their graduate school in the Fall. I was to marry a Dutchman, but college was the easiest “in” to the country until personal affairs could be properly sorted. I sat by the window and he sat next to me. I was tired. We had been traveling and walking for nearly 18 hours. I just wanted to get back to Rotterdam and get some rest. As I stared out the window, I leaned my head against the window, desperately trying to stay awake. I listened to the ka-thunk, ka-thunk of the train as it moved across the rails. He grabbed my right hand and pulled it toward him. My arm, now outstretched, forced me to sit uncomfortably. I let go of his hand and put it back in my lap. The process repeated itself. I said I was tired and wanted to be left alone to rest a while. He pulled my hand and arm back again. I was his fiance and I was going to do as he told me. “It’s nothing personal, dude. I just want to nap for a little bit.” The sequence continued again at which point I yanked my hand back. I was frustrated. “You will hold my hand.” Why? “Because I said so.” When I refused, he grabbed my head with both of his hands and smashed it against the train window. A crack appeared near its bottom and slowly moved up about seven inches. We got up and moved to another seat. He reached to grab my hand again. I moved it away quickly. He put his hand in my lap and clasped his fingers around mine. We sat in silence until the train reached its destination.

There are marks on your soul that never disappear. They are the memories which scar us and shape who we become. I chose compassion. They continue to choose fear. They were out in force one day after the 2024 U.S., election with their chants of intimidation, but they have always been here. “Your body, my choice” they shout, but they have never met compassionate me with the steely reserve who can fight back.